Bulletproof (#1) ✔

7: Franny

    "Madden, Howard," Mr Dalton calls out and I begrudgingly turn around and look at him. "Am I interrupting your enthralling conversation, or can I please get back to teaching the class?"

    "Sorry," I mumble.

    Tyler doesn't say anything but the teacher turns away and finally starts talking again, his hands moving around erratically as his eyes widen from whatever pointless words he's spewing out.

    I catch Tally's eye and she gives me a suggestive look, glancing back at Tyler with a sly smile. I hope to God that Tyler didn't notice her doing that because the mortification sets in quickly and I throw my pen at Tally's head making her laugh. The teacher glares at us once more.

    Later, in drama class, I end up in the cafeteria with a paintbrush in my hand and a cut-out of a tree. It's a small tree and only stands halfway up my leg. I frown at it, not sure that it can really be classed as a tree given its pathetic height.

    "What's wrong, Howard?" Mr Small asks. "You look confused."

    "Nothing," I say. "It's just . . . I mean, isn't it a little small?"

    "Of course, Howard," he says and stands beside me, his head reaching my shoulder. I try so hard to keep my face straight. "That's the tree after it's been zapped."

    "Zapped?" I ask.

    "Yes, Howard." I clench my teeth and wish he would stop calling me by my last name. "The play is about a lost warrior who's very short and he seeks vengeance on the world and invents a shrinking ray to make everyone else smaller than him."

    "So, he shrinks a tree?" I ask. "Shouldn't he shrink a person instead?"

    "You have to start small, Howard, and then get bigger."

    Well that obviously didn't work for you, I think.

    I bite back the comment and smile at Mr Small as he finally walks away. I mix a little of the brown paint with black to get it darker and start on the tree trunk, creating different shades with the black and white paint until the trunk starts to look a little more realistic.

    I glance over at the girl beside me who is also painting a tree, and see that the whole thing has been painted brown, leaves and all. I don't comment. If there's nothing nice to say, then don't say anything.

    I mean, it could be a tree from the desert.

    A brown tree from the desert.

    Tyler is moving his paintbrush up and down lazily, his wrist flicking back and forth as his hand hangs limply. He looks bored out of his mind;  every few seconds, his eyes wander over to the door that leads outside and ultimately to his freedom.

    I can hear his depressed sigh from a mile away and snicker a little.

    "What?" he snarls.

    "Sorry," I say and shake my head, turning back to my tree.

    "No, what?" he asks again, turning to face me fully, still annoyed but also curious.

    "Well it's just . . . " I start with another little snicker, "you look like a puppy that just got kicked."

    He glares at me. "Fuck off."

    Most people would probably be insulted by  that,  maybe yell something back, but I do the exact opposite. I laugh. I must come across as completely crazy. What starts out as a little snicker soon becomes a full-blown chuckle— with snorts thrown in for good measure.

    Tyler just looks at me and many others do, too.

    I don't know why I'm laughing. Maybe it's because the last few days have felt so surreal. Maybe because when I go home tonight half my mom's stuff won't be there. Maybe because this morning's pitiful example of a conversation proved once and for all that my dad really doesn't care.

    I laugh until I'm practically crying, and then I look up to see Tyler's shoulders shaking —he's laughing, too.

    Now everyone's looking.

    And we let them.

    I let them.

    Sometimes it's nice to have people look at you.

    Reminds you that you're actually there.

__________

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(French edition of my book ASK AMY is available in bookstores in France and online retailers outside France)